


Lavender and Pine

by Spiderlily_Writes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claude's Birthday, Claude's stressed, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hilda's got a strap, MariHilda in the background, Marianne and Constance mentioned, Massage, Pegging, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderlily_Writes/pseuds/Spiderlily_Writes
Summary: Claude's been feeling pretty stressed, but who can blame him? There's a war on. At least Hilda's there to visit, and she's better than anyone at self-care.
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	Lavender and Pine

**Author's Note:**

> Ever a day late and a dollar short, here's a fic for Claude's birthday! Thanks as always to the fabulous tansybells for beta-ing this for me!

“Hey, Claude, are you even paying attention to me?” Hilda demands, snapping her fingers at him and dragging him back to the conversation by the metaphorical hair. He lazily casts his gaze in her direction, across their table, giving her an apologetic smile. “Clearly not,” she mumbles, petulantly.

“I’m sorry, Hilda,” he says, propping his chin up on one hand. “I’m not feeling like my usual chipper, happy-go-lucky self today. Not sure what’s going on, but I can’t focus,” He gestures for her to continue. “Can you give me that last bit one more time?”

It’s been about three years since their unofficial graduation from Garreg Mach, and Claude has to admit that the constant worrying about the war raging across Fódlan has started to take a toll on him. He’s usually the last one to say he’s in over his head, but between the late-night strategy meetings, the daytime political parleys, and the complete lack of free time, he’s feeling like a hot mess.

He’d been hoping for a while that having Hilda visiting would be helpful, but so far, he just feels like he’s being kind of a shitty host. He can also tell his friend is definitely aware that something’s going on. She’s more perceptive than a lot of people give her credit for, especially when it comes to the people she cares about. 

“No, actually, I can’t. You’re full of shit,” she huffs. Claude’s taken aback by her forthrightness, and he tries to laugh it off.

“I mean, broadly, yeah, but is there something specific you’re getting at?” He cocks a curious eyebrow her way. “I’m not sure what I could even be lying about.”

“It’s not that you’re lying to me directly! It’s that you’re not being honest with me,  _ or _ yourself. You’re not just out of it; you’re exhausted. Tired, with a capital ‘t’.” She points an accusatory finger right at his nose. “ _ And _ you’re not  _ nearly  _ as good at hiding it as you think you are. When was the last time you took an actual break or did something nice for yourself?” 

Claude thinks about denying it. It makes him more than a little uncomfortable when people worry about him, as he prides himself on his self-sufficient nature, but she makes a solid point. After taking on more responsibility as leader of the Leicester Alliance, he’s been running himself ragged. To be fair, he supposes that he would call her out on it too, if their positions were reversed.

“Do you even know what day it is?” she demands. Claude racks his brain, trying to figure out what he’s missed. Is there a meeting? A holiday? He’s drawing a total blank, and he shrugs helplessly. “It’s your  _ birthday _ ,” Hilda says, exasperated. “Happy birthday, by the way!”

Oh. Right. 

“Yeah, okay, point taken. Time got away from me a little bit, but it’s fine, Hilda, seriously, I just need to get a good night’s sleep tonight-”

“No, nuh-uh. You’re not getting away that easy. You’re absolutely gonna get a good night’s sleep, but since I’m such a great friend, I’m going to come give you one of my world-famous back massages to help you get there.”

Claude snorts. “World-famous, huh? I’ve never heard of ‘em.”

“You can just ask Marianne. It takes like,  _ maybe _ , five minutes before she’s out like a light,” Hilda insists. “Be in your room at eighth bell tonight. You’ve got  _ no idea _ what you have coming, mister.”

He heaves a hard, exaggerated world-weary sigh, and he knows he’s not going to be able to convince her to leave him alone. Maybe it’ll do him some good. At least, it’ll do him some good if she doesn’t snap his spine in half like a dead twig first.

  
  


_________________

It’s about five minutes to eighth bell and Claude’s laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands on his forehead and trying to get his heart rate down. Deep breaths are helpful, as usual, but that alone doesn’t seem to do the trick.He’s not totally sure why he’s so nervous.

Claude’s known Hilda for years. He’s got no reason to be nervous about  _ her _ , specifically. The two of them met shortly before attending Garreg Mach together, and despite Claude’s Almyran heritage and Hilda’s family history with the nation, the two of them got along pretty much instantly. Over time, their relationship had become something deeper though. Not quite romantic, but not quite a friendship, either. Claude often considered himself too busy for romantic entanglement, and he suspects that Hilda’s simply too lazy.

One night, after having a few glasses of wine from bottles swiped from the dining hall, Claude and Hilda had ended up in bed together. Neither of them could quite remember whose idea it had been, or what the catalyst was, but both of them agreed that neither of them got enough sleep that night. After some surprisingly honest discussion the next morning, and no small amount of teasing about bedhead, their friendship simply took on a new dimension.

It’s an arrangement that worked then, and still works now, whenever one of them has a reason to visit the other. Their families are close tactical allies, and so it’s never hard to find an excuse. Claude shows up at House Goneril, slips out of his chambers away from the prying eyes of house servants, dodges Holst (he’d had to do  _ that _ more than once), and spends the night with Hilda. Or, the opposite; Hilda takes a trip to House Riegan, makes some excuse about why she really must talk to Claude, and it really must be  _ right now _ , to anyone who asks, and comes into his rooms with all the subtlety of a rolling thunderstorm.

Their trysts happen every few weeks or so, and it’s always helped him blow off a little bit of steam. He’s sure it serves the same purpose for her.

So why is  _ tonight _ so different?

Before he has time to think about it much further, a booming knock on his bedroom door has him shooting upright in bed with a hand over his heart as if he’s afraid it’s going to beat its way out of his chest.

He tries to sound more relaxed than he feels. It’s not hard. “Yeah?”

“You decent?” Hilda calls from the other side, her voice tinged with impatience.

“No, not remotely,” Claude lies. He’s wearing pajamas that cover more than enough of him to be proper in even the most prudish of company, but he’ll take any opportunity to tease his best friend.

  
The door swings open and Hilda marches into his room without a care in the world. As soon as she looks at him, she groans in disappointment and rolls her eyes. “You said you weren’t decent!”

He gives her a cockeyed little smile. “Nowhere near decent, Hilda, you should know me better than that by now. I’m just the absolute worst.”

“I’ll grant you that.” She kicks the door closed behind her, and he looks her over. She’s wearing a pink (of course) bathrobe with nothing beneath it and a matching pair of slippers, and while Hilda has always been bold, he’s surprised she walked all the way from her rooms to his in just  _ that _ . He also notices she’s carrying a small pouch under one arm, one no larger than a couple of books stacked together.

Claude slides off the bed and starts to approach Hilda, but she puts up a hand to stop him. “I don’t think so. I’m leading tonight, so you just take your stressed lil’ ass back over to the bed.” Then she adds, as though she’d almost forgotten something very important, “And take off your clothes.”

Bold indeed.

He’s curious enough for what she has planned that he doesn’t argue, he just shrugs, then shucks his shirt and pants as casually as he can. They go into the corner of the room, which leaves him completely naked. Claude doesn’t want to seem  _ too _ eager, of course, lest Hilda decide to tease him about it. As he strips, though, he watches her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

There’s something different about her demeanor tonight. It’s a kind of... _ fire, _ radiating off of her, an energy and determination that he doesn’t see in her very often; and he’s not entirely sure why she would be acting that way tonight. It’s just a massage, right? But based on how she’s looking at him, she’s taking this particular rendezvous way more seriously than she usually does.

He’s standing next to the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her, but she seems to be ignoring him as she drops her bag onto the nightstand. It makes a surprising, audible ‘thump’ against the wood, as though it’s a decent bit heavier than it looks. 

Before he has a chance to wonder why, though, he sees her begin to pull an assortment of items from it and lay them out. A series of red candles, a little glass bottle about the size of his fist with some kind of clear liquid in it, and a strip of thick cloth. He’s pretty sure he can see something else in the bag, too, but she closes it back up before he can get a closer look. Hilda tosses him the strip of cloth.

“Put that on.” She doesn’t leave him any room to argue.

“You’re all business tonight, huh, Hilda?” he says, snatching it out of the air. “A blindfold? What, are you throwing me a surprise party? Are all the guests people I’d be okay with seeing me naked?”

That manages to draw a little snort out of Hilda, and as she grabs the candles and begins placing them around the room, he regards the blindfold in his hand. It makes him just a little bit uncomfortable, and they’ve never used one before. Claude’s had a lot of people try to do some very unsavory things to him when he’s not looking; things up to, and including, trying to kill him. 

At those times, his situational awareness and cleverness managed to keep him safe. If he puts on the blindfold, he robs himself of about half of that awareness, and it’s a gamble, even now, even years later, to do something like that. For all he knows, Hilda’s been running the long con. She’s been after his head from the very beginning, and now she feels like she’s gotten close enough that she can disarm, disrobe, and then disable him without a fight.

On the other hand, though…

He spares a moment to look at Hilda as she sets the candles carefully around the room, and she begins to light them, one by one. They’re lightly scented, he realizes; they smell like pine trees. Almyran pine, specifically. 

Claude recalls a conversation he’d had with Hilda over tea once, a long time ago, about feeling nostalgic for the forests in Almyra. He’d spent a lot of time deep in the thick of them, mostly practicing with his bow by hunting the local fauna. After he’d waxed poetic for several minutes about how pleasant and peaceful it had been, how uncomplicated, how un-fraught with trauma and politics and schemes, he’d told her that the most memorable part was the pine trees. Almyran pines don’t grow anywhere other than Almyra, he had explained, and anytime he catches their scent on the wind, for a moment, he feels like he’s home. Naturally, he’d assumed her mind was elsewhere and that he was mostly talking to himself.

But those candles. Almyran pine.

With shaking hands, he puts on the blindfold.

It only takes her a few seconds to come back around to him, and he hears her slippers lightly padding on the stone floor of his bedroom as she does. The air around him is warm, and thick with the scent of Almyran pine, and that alone is enough to make some of the tension in his back and shoulders melt away.

Another sound, that of cloth falling onto cloth, tells him that Hilda’s just shed her robe. Somehow, being unable to see her standing behind him, unclothed, is still almost as arousing as if he were able to look right at her. 

He feels her though, as she takes a step forward and wraps him in a hug. He feels her chest pressing against his back, her legs brushing his lightly, her breath lying hot on his neck, and those sensations combined are enough to make him shiver. He knows she can tell. The pretense he’s usually able to slip behind like a protective barrier is gone, now, and Claude’s at her mercy. He feels his heart begin to pound again.

“Hey Claude?” she asks,  _ sotto voce _ , but her volume doesn’t matter. He can feel the words against his skin. 

“Yeah?” he replies.

“You know I love you, right?”

He hesitates for a moment. It’s been implied for a good, long while now, but she’s the first one to say it out loud. Claude feels the tips of his ears warming as self-consciousness washes over him. “Yep,” he mutters, somewhat more shakily than he’d like. “I, uh, love you too, Hilda.”

She squeezes him just a little bit tighter. “Do you trust me?” 

_ Hilda, if only you knew _ , he thinks to himself, but out loud, he simply says, “I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Good. Then relax, and lay down on the bed. Facedown. Then I can get started.”

Hilda releases him, but as he stalls for a moment, she sighs. He feels one strong, but gentle hand against his back, and then another on his collarbone. Those hands guide him forward onto his mattress as Hilda speaks, quietly telling him, “ _ Down, _ ” as if she’s being patient with a particularly nervous puppy.

At her insistence, he leans forward and slides onto his bed. Though the blankets atop it are familiar, he shudders at the feeling of them against his bare chest and stomach, not to mention the effect the sensation has on his half-hard shaft. Being blindfolded makes a person more aware of that kind of thing, he supposes, just like it’s made him more aware of the heat and aroma from the candles, and the sensation of Hilda pressing against him from behind. Taking one sense away enhances the others, that’s something to remember for the future.

There’s a soft little ‘pop’ as Hilda uncorks the glass bottle on the nightstand, and another scent, lightly flowery, fills the air and mingles with the pine from the candles. Scented oil, he realizes. That makes sense.

“I hope you don’t mind lavender. It’s Marianne’s favorite, so it’s all I really keep on hand,” she says, sounding almost apologetic. Claude chuckles lightly as he folds his hands in front of him on the bed and lays his head down on them sideways. 

“Nah, I don’t mind at all. Marianne has good taste.”

He hears the sound of skin on skin as Hilda rubs her hands together, and he feels her lean closer, over him. Her hands, damp and slick, press down gently on his shoulders, and he gasps at the contact. Hilda hums to herself as she works her way around the taut muscles of his shoulders, and between them. She’s moving in steady, slow circles and lines, back and forth, over, across, up and down, then down to his lower back to do the same there. 

“Goddess, Claude, you live like this?” she asks, sounding legitimately shocked about, well, something? He’s not entirely sure what she means, and he says so.

“Live like how?” he inquires, conversationally.

“You have more tension and knots in your shoulders and upper back than someone twice your age should,” she says, clicking her tongue. Her tone is gentle, but reproachful. “You need to start taking better care of yourself.”

Claude swallows. “I’m taking perfectly fine care of myself,” he argues, but then she presses down on a particularly sensitive spot just under one shoulder. Claude tenses, then he groans in both pain and relief as he feels yet more pressure release.

  
“Well I say you’re not, and so does your back, and I should know. Nobody would say I’m not nice to  _ my _ self,” she says, laughing lightly.

“I guess I can’t argue with the evidence,” he mumbles, settling back down. 

The massage, minus the points where Hilda presses down and kneads at him a little harder to work at a particularly stubborn bit of tension, feels heavenly. Her palms and fingers trace shapes around his body, as though she’s drawing an elaborate map of territory she’s tread a thousand times. Her hands roam across his skin, outlining a scar here or there, some of which are from assassination attempts, some from battle, some from carelessness. He can occasionally feel her hair bouncing and teasing against his skin, tickling him a bit before she pushes it back behind her.

Claude feels as though he could melt into the bed, his muscles are so loose and pliant, and the thought of moving even an inch is offensive to him. He almost dozes off there as Hilda continues working more of the oil into his back, the warmth of it a pleasant compliment to the faint, distant heat from the candles. Just as he feels his mind begin to wander toward unconsciousness, though, Hilda speaks again.

“I mean it, Claude,” she says, almost too quiet to hear. Hilda sounds serious, and worried. “You put a lot of pressure on yourself. You try to do too much, and if you burn yourself out and run yourself into the ground, you’ll be no good to anyone.”

“I have a lot of responsibilities. I can’t abandon them. There’s nobody to pass that stuff on to,” but even as he says it, he realizes how it sounds, and he feels like an idiot for saying it.

Hilda cuts in, her hands trailing down his sides in a way that sends a little tingle down his spine. “Maybe there’s nobody to pass everything to, but we can all help a little, Claude. You have to let people  _ in _ a little more. I know you feel like you’ve gotta keep everything filed away in that overactive brain of yours, but even  _ you _ can’t do it all.”

“Sure I can,” he says, his tone jovial, but his half-chuckle is interrupted as Hilda pulls one hand back and swats him firmly on the backside. He yelps in surprise.

“You’re  _ so _ full of shit,” Hilda grouses, stepping away from the bed. Claude feels her absence acutely, and despite the heat of the room, the empty space near him feels so much colder. He can hear her rustling around in that little bag on the nightstand, pulling something out.

“You said you trust me, right?” Hilda asks, her tone smooth and carefully measured. “Like, you really, really trust me?”

Something about the way she asks that question sets him on edge, and he bristles. “Well, yeah, but now that you’re asking it like  _ that _ , I’m not so sure.” Claude hears another noise. It sounds almost like clasps being unlatched, or a belt being put on. He resists the temptation to lift the blindfold and peek behind her. Even if Hilda’s acting funny, he said he trusts her, and that’ll have to be it. And, also, he still has no interest in moving. “What are you doing back there?”

There’s the sound of that little glass bottle being unstoppered again, and the lavender scent of the massage oil suffuses the room once more. He doesn’t hear her rubbing it into anything though, and as the silence drags on, he can feel his anxiety rising. “Hilda?” he asks, his voice just a bit shaky. “Really, what are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer him with words. Instead, he feels her hands take his hips and hold tight as something solid, rigid, and smooth slowly presses between his thighs. It rubs against the base of his erection, which is now pressed firmly between the bed and his lower stomach. He gasps. “Hilda?” he demands, this time putting authority into his tone.

“Has anyone ever done this for you before, Claude?” she asks, sweet, saccharine. “I know you and I have more experience together than some, but I also know I’ve never fucked you before. Has anyone?” 

Claude swallows, then takes one long, deep, shuddering breath. He figures it’s probably in his best interest to be honest, right now. “No,” he says, his voice clipped. “Nobody has.”

Hilda hums to herself, and grinds her length against Claude’s, her shaft against the side of his, and it draws another little moan from him. He’s not quite overstimulated, but he is pretty sensitive, and the teasing doesn’t take long to get to him. She digs her nails in where she’s grabbing his hips, and it makes him wince. 

When she speaks again, there’s an eager, quiet edge to her words. He feels her lean down a little closer. Her hands move from his hips and he can tell she’s put them on either side of his head on the bed for support. Hilda leans even  _ closer _ , her breasts against his back, her hips connecting with his as she thrusts between his thighs again, and he feels her lips press, ever so gently, against his ear.

“Claude. Can I fuck you?” she asks, and he can hear the desire, the near  _ giddiness _ in her voice. “I really,  _ really _ want to.”

This time, he doesn’t need to think about it. He doesn’t hesitate. He knows what he wants, and he knows he can get it with one word, soft, breathless, and needy.

“Yeah.”

She plants a soft little kiss against his neck, then pushes herself back to a standing position. He feels her withdraw from between his legs, and instead, the end of her strap presses against his entrance. He can feel the oil on the tip of the thing, and he’s grateful she decided to think that far ahead. Claude hears some people just use spit, and he’s not sure that sounds like the best idea.

“Take a deep breath, and let it out slow,” Hilda says, putting one hand on his lower back, and he obeys, drawing in a long gulp of the sweet, aromatic air. As he lets it out, she presses into him, slowly, carefully, an inch at a time, and lets out a little gasp of her own as she does.

Even as delicately as she moves, Claude gasps and nearly tenses reflexively, but he manages to stop himself. Instead, he moves his hands in front of him and clasps the bedsheets hard, squeezing them and gritting his teeth. It feels...strange. Not bad, but odd. It’s a fullness he isn’t used to, and a wave of heat washes over him, starting in his core and radiating out to cover his whole body. He feels himself begin to sweat, and his head is spinning.

It’s hard to breathe, as Hilda continues forward, and he wonders how  _ big _ the thing actually is. He hadn’t actually seen it, and it’s hard to estimate just from what he’s been able to feel so far, but regardless of the actual size, it feels far too large. “Hilda,” he chokes out through his teeth. “Is it...are you, uh-”

She shushes him, quietly, gently, and rubs his back with the hand she’s put there. It relaxes him just a little. “Shh, Claude, you’re doing so good,” Hilda coos, “I’m almost all the way in, and you’re doing  _ so _ good. Just let me handle it, okay?”

Claude makes a low, affirmative noise, and in just another moment, he feels Hilda’s hips pressing against his backside as she bottoms out. He lets out a long, shuddering breath and once again feels as though he could sink into the bed and remain there for the rest of his life. Hilda stays still for a long, blessed moment, before speaking again.

“I’m going to move, okay? Do you feel good?” she asks.

He’s not totally sure, but he knows the feeling isn’t unpleasant. “I, uh, think so?”

“Good enough for me. If you want me to stop, just say so, alright? This is all about you, and I don’t wanna do anything to hurt you or make you upset.”

Hilda braces herself against his back with one hand and his waist with the other, and he feels that fullness begin to withdraw from him, just as slowly as she’d entered. It’s enough to make him moan aloud, and she giggles as he does. When it feels like she’s almost entirely pulled away, she stops, leaving just the tip of the length inside him. Once again, she speaks.

“Alright, there, see? First thrust is always the hardest. I’m gonna keep going, and I just want you to try to relax.”

“What about you?” he manages to ask, once he catches his breath. It’s still hard to think straight, but he’s got a little bit of his head back on his shoulders. 

“What do you mean, what about me?” she replies, and she sounds genuinely puzzled at the question.

“I mean, you can’t feel anything right?”

Hilda snickers. “You don’t need to worry about that. Even if that  _ was _ the case, I’d be having a good time just watching you. But this special little guy,” she says, tapping the shaft of the toy gently with one finger, and sending a very interesting sensation through Claude as she does. “...is something Constance cooked up, using magic  _ way _ more complicated than I understand. Marianne could probably explain it better, but long story short, it feels like it’s a part of me just as much as yours-” she pushes her hand under his body and squeezes his cock gently, “-is a part of you.”

He whimpers as she squeezes him, and tries to restrain the urge to thrust into her hand. He’s so hard, he feels like he’s going to explode. “Well that’s, ah, really nice?” he says, unsure of himself.

“Yep! Nice is definitely a word you could use for it,” she sings, pressing into him again with a thrust that’s still slow, but a little faster than the last. His breath catches just before he has a chance to let slip any kind of witty retort, and he whines instead. Once more, her hips meet his, and once more, she draws back.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she manages to find a good rhythm. She pulls back, then forward, then back again at a rate that lets him relax, loosen, and accommodate her, with his body slowly becoming used to the sensation.

Once he’s over the initial shock of having something inside him though, the heat permeating his body turns into something far different. A warm, full sort of pleasure begins to build inside him, unlike what he’s felt during sex before. Every few strokes or so, Hilda manages to hit something, some spot within him, that feels so good it makes him dizzy just like that very first thrust. It’s not long before he’s trying to press his hips back onto her, just to get more.

Hilda apparently notices that, and varies her pace a little, keeping him guessing. She rubs his back, grabs his hips, alternates between long, slow thrusts and fast, harder ones, and Claude knows he’s a mess. He can’t see her, he can’t predict what she’s going to do. All he  _ can _ do is lay there on the bed and let her work.

Well, that, and grind against the covers. The pleasure building inside him also serves to make him far more aware of every little jolt, every twitch that jostles his own cock as it rubs against the plush blankets. As Hilda slaps forward into him, and maybe gets a little carried away with the intensity of it, she pushes him down and forward a little. Each time, it puts yet more pressure against his throbbing erection. 

It’s not long before he’s moaning with every thrust in, every pull back, every little move Hilda makes is setting his nerves on fire and driving him absolutely mad. Claude is dripping sweat, writhing against the mattress. His hair is plastered against his forehead, and he’s trying his best to hold back and make the experience last. He’s never come this way before, but he knows if she keeps it up, he’s probably going to. 

Hilda’s clearly enjoying herself too, her breaths getting shorter and harder above him. It sounds like she’s biting her lip to keep from making too much noise, and all the sounds that  _ do _ come out of her are just a little muffled. As he feels like he’s reaching the edge of orgasm, he lets out a low, steady cry. Hilda slows and stops, and the two of them take a moment just to breathe. “Why are you stopping?” he demands, though he knows his voice is too pitiful to have any kind of command to it.

“Because I don’t want you to come like that,” she says, and pulls out of him, slowly and carefully. The complete emptiness inside him is jarring, and he lets out a choked little cry as she leaves him.

“Come  _ on, _ Hilda, really?” he pleads, and she chuckles at him.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to let you come at all, just not like that! But jeez, Claude, you really adjusted quick, huh? Straight from ‘oh no, never done this before’ to moaning and trying to bounce back on my cock like your life depended on it.” She slaps his ass again and he lets out a little offended noise. “I want you to roll over on your back,” she says, “and take off the blindfold. I want you to see me fuck you.”

As she says that, electricity shoots through him, starting at the top of his neck and making the short hairs there stand on end, before the feeling goes straight down between his legs. Claude can’t obey fast enough, flipping onto his back and pulling the blindfold off.

He’s glad the lights in the room are low and the space is primarily candle-lit now, but even so, it takes him a moment to adjust to being able to see again.

Claude looks up at Hilda, standing above him at the edge of the bed. She’s...honestly, beautiful. It’s not like he’s blind, he’s looked at her before, but there’s something different about looking up at her like this. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is disheveled in the same way it is after any kind of workout, and she’s panting from the exertion of fucking him.

Hilda’s abdominal muscles, glistening in the low light, are taut and strong from all the time spent training with her axe, and her arms and thighs are muscled to match. Her physique is athletic, and makes it all that much clearer that her frequent whining about being too delicate to work is all completely for show. She catches him staring, and smirks down at him. “What’s the matter Claude?” she teases, “Can’t keep your eyes off me?”

“Why would I want to?” he mumbles before he has a chance to think about it, and he flushes as Hilda giggles again. 

“Alright, flatterer, get all the way up onto the bed. I’m going to grab a little more oil.”

He shimmies upward, so only his feet are hanging off the edge, and waits for Hilda to finish. Once she does, she climbs up onto the mattress in front of him, grinning madly. “Alright, Claude, are you ready for more? Think your cute little butt can take it?” He snorts.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re pretty... _ cocky _ ,” she says, reaching down and sliding one finger up the underside of his dick. It’s not just the sensation that makes Claude groan, though, and he rolls his eyes. Hilda bites her lip and her smile grows wider. “Okay, sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

This time, she reaches down and grabs his legs, putting her hands on the backs of his knees and lifting, spreading him wide. He’s done the same to her before, and being on the other side of the equation is definitely an interesting experience. Once his legs are spread, she lines up the strap (which he can now see is bright pink,  _ of course _ ), and thrusts into him again.

There’s much less resistance now, though the initial thrust still makes him cry out, and it doesn’t take her quite as long to find a rhythm this time. He finds that the few moments they spent changing positions and bantering didn’t actually reduce very much of that pressure inside him, and it builds again fairly rapidly.

This time, though, a couple things are different.

First, he’s able to see Hilda moving, and that’s a special kind of treat all on its own. They’ve gone to bed together plenty of times, but it’s rare that she takes this much initiative and he’s kind of loving it. Her face is intense, and flushed, and she’s staring down at him less like a friend, and more like he’s prey, and later on, he’s going to have to reflect on why that’s so  _ fucking _ hot. 

He watches her muscles tense as she pounds into him, watches her chest bounce as she moves, watches her hair swinging behind her as she puts every bit of strength she can into absolutely ruining him. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

Second, Hilda looks down and seems to notice, for the first time, how frustratingly hard he is. Her grin turns wicked. She reaches down, letting go of his legs, and wraps one oiled, soft hand around his shaft, then puts the other on his torso to keep herself steady. Hilda begins to stroke him in time with her thrusts, and it’s almost too much for Claude to handle.

That warm, intense, coiling ecstasy continues to build within him, and he’s crying out, writhing, begging, pleading for something, and he’s too lost in that haze of arousal to even know what he’s saying. Whatever it is though, it seems to egg Hilda on, as she fucks him harder, and faster, and with more of that fire she’s been showing him all evening.

She closes her eyes and groans, and it occurs to Claude that if the strap works like she says it does, she’s probably getting pretty close too. 

“Hilda, goddess,  _ fuck _ ,” he grunts after one particularly good thrust, and this time when she looks at him, it’s not fire or mischief he sees in her eyes. It’s...adoration. She’s looking down at him with naught but love in her gaze, and he can see it, can  _ feel _ it, as she watches him.

“Claude, you’re so pretty, you know that?” she asks between breaths, and her eyes wander up his body, coming to meet his own. “I don’t know why we didn’t do this sooner. You look so good down there, losing it for me. Are you close?” 

“Yeah, Hilda, I don’t know-”

“You don’t have to hold back, Claude! Come for me. And don’t you dare look away, I want to see your face when you do.”

It’s hard to do, to meet her eyes. It’s embarrassing to fall apart like this, to let her see exactly how much she’s in control, to let go. But he does it anyways, with tears in his eyes, because he trusts her, and because he  _ loves _ her, dammit.

Claude comes, hard, crying out loud enough that the sound echoes around the room. His vision swims as pleasure erupts through him more intensely than any orgasm he’s ever had. He coats Hilda’s hand, and a good portion of his own torso, as his cock pulses in time with the waves of ecstasy blowing through his body. He tenses, arches into her grip, and releases almost hard enough for it to  _ hurt _ . The whole time, Hilda continues to stroke him, and fuck him, gently, slowly, wringing every last little bit of his climax out of his tired, spent body.

Moments later, he sees her eyes flutter, and she gasps, too, a long, quaking, adorable moan winding its way out of her mouth and wrapping tight around his heart. Claude reaches up for her, acting purely on impulse, and pulls her down. She loses her grip on his shaft, but the strap stays buried as she comes down atop him. Hilda catches herself on wobbly arms, and as she comes, too, he lifts his head up and kisses her hard. She melts into it, groaning into his mouth, her hips twitching against him as she rides out her own climax. He wraps his arms around her and holds her there, letting Hilda go limp in his embrace.

As she lowers herself further down to rest on his chest, the strap slides out of Claude with a slow slickness that makes him shudder again. Hilda simply lays there, eyes closed, the room silent but for the sound of their breathing, and their heartbeats. Claude swears they’re beating in time.

Once Hilda recovers, she opens her eyes and looks up at him.

“Happy birthday,” she mumbles, before nestling into the crook of his neck. He doesn’t think he has the strength to move her right now, so he just chuckles and lets her stay, rubbing her back idly.

“Thanks, Hilda.” Claude yawns, and settles down onto the bed.

“You feel any more relaxed?” Hilda asks him, tracing circles on his collarbone with one fingernail. 

“Yeah, I think I do. I see why Marianne likes your massages so much,” he jokes, but Hilda doesn’t laugh. 

She simply sighs. “Yep, she takes every chance she can get for one.”

Something clicks in Claude’s head.

“Hilda, do all of your massages include a strap-on?” he asks.

“Of course they do, silly. Why else would it be in the bag?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me about HilClaude on twitter @spiderlilywrite.


End file.
